“What a pity it is that Gibbon More Cumin has no more beasts left in Delnahaitnich,” said Corrie MacDonald to his people, with an ironical laugh, as they sat in a circle round the fire, devouring one of the young beasts they had killed.
“We need not come back here for a while, till he sends up some more stock from Kincherdie,” said one of his men.
“We have done not that much amiss in these three turns,” said another. “I’m thinking we may be content to free him of blackmail for a season.”
“By the beard of St. Barnabas, but we’ll come back again and again, until we drive away every beast the cowardly loon has between this and Spey,” said Corrie. “What should we do with such a lump of butter, but keep melting at it as long as it will run.”
“Surely, surely,” replied several of them.
“It will make our broth all the fatter,” said Corrie, laughing again.
“Villains, do ye dare to laugh at me at the very moment when you are feeding at my cost?” cried Gibbon More, rushing suddenly and unexpectedly among them, like a raging wolf into a flock of penned sheep. “I’ll teach you to make a fool of me.”
The immense blade of his two-handed sword gleamed like a meteor in the air, flashed in the sun, and shed lightnings into their terrified eyes. Each of them tried to scramble to his feet as he best could; and one or two were shorn of their heads ere they could rise from the ground. Bonnets with heads in them fell to right and left, as I have seen ripe apples scattered from their parent bough by a violent gust of wind, or by the inroad of some thieving schoolboy. No one thought of anything else but flight; and the actions of all were as quick as their thoughts. But Gibbon More’s enormous double-edged weapon was quicker in the repetition of its sweeping cuts than even thought itself. On he went, slashing right and left after them as they fled, till he had strewed the ravine and the hill-side with about a dozen of their carcases, and then, breathless and overcome with rage, haste, and toil, he sat himself down to rest on the heather. The remainder of the robbers were thus allowed to escape; and as he did not know the boasting Corrie MacDonald personally, that hero contrived to get safe away among the rest, and went home to Lochaber, somewhat less disposed to try experiments on the temper of Gibbon More Cumin, than he had declared himself to be before this his terrible and unlooked for onslaught.
Gibbon More’s people, with Hector at their head, arrived too late to share with him in the glory of his victory. But they were useful in burying the slain. A few tumuli, which are still to be seen raising their green heads among the heather on the southern declivity of the Geal-charn, were thrown up by them over the dead bodies; and they then had the satisfaction of driving home their master’s young cattle in safety to their native pasture, where the animals afterwards grew to be cows and oxen, entirely free from any further alarm from Corrie MacDonald.
I need not say that the sharp-witted page took good care that his master should profit by the temporary absence of Gibbon More. Sir John Grant was at the cottage immediately after the Lord of Glenchearnich had left it. But the knight had little advantage after all from an adventure which had cost Corrie MacDonald so dear. He had indeed the satisfaction of again beholding and conversing with Bigla; but, filled as she was at the time with alarm and anxiety about her father’s safety, she could talk about or listen to no other subject. The time of the Lord of Glenchearnich’s absence fled like a short dream. His anticipated travel of a few days had, by his own extraordinary activity and courage, been reduced to a few short hours, and the wary and watchful page had barely time to warn his master away, ere Gibbon More’s voice was heard calling to his people, as he returned to the house begrimed with the blood and soil of his recent conflict.